


Withdrawal

by tapdancingapples



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: AU, Drug Addiction, Insomnia, M/M, young adult!Sherlock and John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tapdancingapples/pseuds/tapdancingapples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The drugs had been the most gorgeous distraction from the utterly mundane things in life. A seductive high, a perfect peak, and the most grotesque come-down. He'd always been an addict, withdrawal being a literal depiction of hell. It was terrible.</p>
<p>John helped.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my multi-chaptered fic, which is also on FF, if you prefer reading it there. I'm open to any ideas and constructive criticism is welcome. This is my own take on Sherlock's drug addiction. Beta'd by gbheart, who is on FF.net.

* * *

  
**_Withdrawal_ ** **-** _Prologue_   


* * *

The drugs had been the most gorgeous distraction from the utterly mundane things in life. All the inconsequential little matters ceased to exist, when his mind reached that peak - that seductive high - and raced through everything that he felt had purpose. It was by no means peace and serenity but rather pure rapture, in the form of just being able to _think_ , and not having to pay mind to the static of every other meaningless entity.

It had been the most perfect solution to the most constant underlying problem: boredom.

Boredom meant that there was nothing to focus his intelligence on. The trivial and irrelevant things began to matter, and the psychoanalysis of petty things, like emotions and actions, came to the front of his mind.

Boredom was by far one of the most human things his mind and body could submit to. Boredom meant he felt the need to bring more attention to himself, in any way he could, just for a measly distraction. He would sulk like a child, just so that someone would complain, and he would make meaningless experiments that smelt rather harsh, so that someone would ask what on earth he was doing.

The smallest twinge of a needle led to the most pure and unadulterated rush.

He liked to think that it wasn't the chemical composition of the drugs that held power over him, but rather the power of thinking that it gave him. It wasn't a dependency to be constantly under the influence, but a fear that if he stopped, and the boredom set in, he would do something bad. Life around him would slow to a terrible drone, while he would remain racing ahead, unable to stop, and tearing his mind to shreds.

Donovan said that one day he would become bored, and the only solution to that intense boredom would be through killing.

He'd dreamt about that once. A kiss of steel against an exposed throat, the way the metal would slit through the skin – so _easy_ – and that he'd have to apply more pressure to pass through their windpipe, before finally, with all the force he could muster, their spine. Blood would flow freely, and the art of making sure the evidence would never trace back to him would captivate him.

Killing would likely become boring, one day, but using all of his intellect to make sure that the evidence would lead somewhere completely different? That seemed almost... _fun_.

People were fragile. It really was only meat and bone, in the end.

He'd tried sex, but people were too willing to commit, to ask for more than he gave, and form petty attachments that he had no interest in. The adrenaline had been wonderful, but there was only so much his body could take, before physical limitations set in. Food and sleep really were tedious, disruptive, and an ever present need. The cases Lestrade had given him were a perfect relief. He was solving the murders rather than committing them; two completely different ends of a scale that were balancing out in tandem.

The cases were perfect, until the criminals of London decided to take a well-deserved break, rest their feet, have about fifty cups of tea, and then proceed to gossip about their future heists.

As soon as the cases stopped, the boredom set in, and he felt his mind do something terrible.

Cigarettes were his last resort. They were easy to access, fairly inexpensive and even socially acceptable.

In other words, they were boring.

Drugs had never been factored into the equation but, _God,_ they worked. Cocaine had quickly become his favourite. Injecting the drug was simple and effective – an almost automatic burst of awareness. The drug's effects would pass, often within a 38-44 minute time bracket for him, but that was often just long enough to run himself down and into a blissful sleep.

It was so easy to do. He had no social circle to come knocking with concern, and the 'colleagues' he worked with at the Yard certainly didn't care.

It had been seven months since he and Mycroft had spoken, but, _of course_ , his brother's internal social clock decided to visit him just after he'd finished shooting up.

That had been the end of his bliss.

Rehab was the most realistic depiction of hell on earth that he had ever been forced through. There were too many people, too many little things to focus on, and nothing to distract him. They followed a strict schedule and shoved information about cocaine down his throat, as if the knowledge would stop him from eternally craving it.

He was smarter than every idiotic person in there, and yet he had chosen drugs.

Mycroft kept it all in check: the bills, the crying nurse who had just had her marriage ended because of him, and the other addict who'd tried to swing a punch. Eventually, or three days in, he resigned and took Sherlock home for him to battle the addiction there. At Mycroft's home, he was given a room and a bathroom but nothing else. Meals were taken to him, as were his various forms of entertainment: books and minor cases.

It was a little less than a month, until he was allowed to explore the rest of the house. Mycroft was careful to have him constantly supervised, lest he get his hands on the drug somewhere else. Another month passed before he was allowed back to his old flat, with the rent having been paid by Mycroft, during his absence, and he immersed himself in anything and everything that he could to distract himself.

His control slipped, exactly like it did last time. The lack of options forced him to the needle and, in turn, back into rehab.

This time, Mycroft didn't even bother to force him into one of their permanent facilities; he opened up the old room and forced him to stay. The only rule this time was that he had to attend weekly group meetings.

Once he was free, he told himself never again.

He was clean for four months, until his fear came back and the need for drugs with it.

He was in a new flat now. Four different walls watched him, as the needle slipped past his skin, and he shot up again. The effect was instantaneous; the shame a thing of the past. He took everything he needed and left the rest behind, not caring who found it and what they would do.

The air outside seemed fresher and more vibrant, as he tucked his hands into his coat pockets and faced the chilling wind head on. He set off down the street, knowing that, by morning, they'd have found him, which is exactly why he didn't bother to hide, this time, and the next bout of rehab would be on his to-do list.

* * *

 


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by gbheart, who is over on FF.net. I'll posting about one chapter per day, until I reach where I'm up to on FF.net, and then the updates will slow down depending on how quickly I write. Enjoy C:

* * *

 

  ** _Chapter 1 -_ **_Of Chance and Texting_

* * *

At the time, John had considered the meeting to be pure chance, simply an unprecedented turn of events that hadn't meant to affect him as much as it did but coincidently happened to wreak havoc upon his fairly simple life. Looking back now, he admitted that anything to do with Mycroft Holmes was never simply something as banal as chance.

He had been checking one of the drug rehabilitation clinics close to where he just happened to study medicine. He'd dealt with people with addictions before, including Harry and her _subtle_ love of alcohol, but he had never had anything to do with getting off drugs. Considering that he was well on his way to becoming a doctor, it seemed the logical choice to go and look around and grab some info from the people who actually worked there, rather than Googling it and finding a rather fishy looking website with a pop up porn ad on the side.

So far, the day at the clinic seemed fairly slow and quiet, and a few of the staff took the time out of their day to smile tiredly at him and engage in conversation about their work. Eventually, his luck ran out, and the woman he'd just been talking to for the last 25 minutes had to dash of with a shouted apology.

He stood there lost for a moment, and then decided to take his leave.

That was when Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade walked through the doors.

John, of course, had no idea who they were, although he was quite aware of what a peculiar image they struck. The one on the left was dressed in a smart-looking three-piece suit and was twirling an umbrella, as he almost swaggered into the place. Next to him, his companion looked rather bedraggled: tired eyes, simple clothes, but with a rather nice jacket over the top, and an expression of equal parts exasperation and desperation.

He was about to walk past them, when the swaggering man stopped him by barring his way with the umbrella. "Dr John Watson, I presume," he began smoothly. "The both of us have a proposition to make."

If the umbrella hadn't startled him, then having the man know his name certainly did.

"Uh, future doctor actually. Haven't finished my training yet." He said sheepishly.

The other man, who hadn't yet spoken, took a step forward and stretched out his hand. "My name's Greg, and this is Mycroft Holmes." John decided that he liked this man more, given the fact that he was acting a tad more normal about the entire situation. It was obvious that he considered himself less important than the man named Mycroft.

John smiled at the tired eyes, "I'd give you my name, but you seem to already know it, so I won't bother." They shook hands with small smiles. The humour had dissolved the tension between them, however, Mycroft was watching them with a certain air of superiority that ruined it.

Mycroft abruptly turned around and began walking away. Greg sighed and tilted his head in a manner that suggested that John should follow them. It seemed a stupid thing to do, but he was curious, and so he did.

They walked down an empty pathway, for a full minute, before, for seemingly no reason at all, they finally stopped.

"My younger brother is a slave to his cocaine addiction." Mycroft began, with an air of indifference. "We've already had him at a rehabilitation clinic once, much to his horror, but he has relapsed twice already. By the end of tonight, Lestrade here is likely to find him in one of his numerous hidey holes, still coming down from a high." As blank as Mycroft's expression was, his eyes certainly weren't. His faux coldness towards the situation was one John often adopted, when thinking of Harry. Her addiction was her own, but, nevertheless, he had spent far too many nights puzzling over how to help her.

John shuffled his feet. "I'm not exactly sure how I can help here; I've never dealt with something like that."

Mycroft tutted, "Oh no, you misunderstand me, doctor. This is the last time I'm allowing this to happen, and I intend for you to help him full term."

John gaped. A slick car pulled up beside them, and Mycroft eagerly opened the door to it. "Ah, Anthea," he said almost warmly, before turning back to them. "I'm afraid I'm rather busy, at the moment, but I have full confidence that Greg will explain everything."

They watched the car pull away with lost expressions, Greg's just a little more controlled and expectant.

"Why don't we discuss this over at the pub? It'll be easier."

* * *

The pub Greg took him to was the one he frequented often to find his sister. He was glad that, when they walked in, she wasn't on one of the barstools, creating a racket and sloshing beer down her front with an apologetic smile.

Once they sat down, with a pint in hand, Greg gave a weary sigh, before launching into a slightly more thorough explanation.

"Well, like Mycroft said, his younger brother, Sherlock, is on cocaine. It's been tough. You can tell he's trying to stop, but it just isn't working. At one point, he disappeared and we found him on the streets acting the part of a beggar." He seemed to smile with bitter amusement. "He's a brilliant kid – really, he is – it's just that this is taking over him."

Greg opened his mouth to say more but took a sip of beer, instead.

"How do you want me to help, though?" John asked.

Greg sighed mournfully. "We tried rehab a bit, for the first time, and it worked...well, we thought it did. When he relapsed, we forced him into one of those groups you go and talk to weekly. Made one of the workers cry within five minutes, I'm told." Greg broke off for another sip. The atmosphere seemed tense and sad. "He's been clean for a couple months now and has been throwing himself into anything to distract himself. Yesterday we found his… kit," he hissed the word with distaste, "in his room, mostly used. We confiscated it, but he's smart enough to take some of the stuff with him. Rehab obviously isn't the right way to go about this."

Partial understanding washed over him, and he tipped his own drink back thoughtfully. "Couldn't you just try another clinic? Shouldn't judge them all by one failed attempt."

Greg laughed bitterly again. "You'd have to meet him to understand. He's like his brother – smarter than everyone else around – but even more socially awkward, if you can believe it. He knows too much about people, and that makes him act like a complete smart arse around them. Not only that, but he's usually too proud to accept the help of others."

John frowned, and Greg panicked at the sight of it.

"Please consider this. I know it's too much to ask, especially with a kid like Sherlock, and considering you're finishing up your training soon, so it'll be difficult, but Mycroft really seems to think you're the right kinda guy for this."

"I –"

" _Please_. All we want is for someone to go there each day – someone with medical experience – and make sure he isn't doing something incredibly stupid. You'll be paid, and you'll get experience, but please, we really need help on this one."

And just like that, John caved in.

* * *

They discussed the situation a little longer, but the awkwardness of the whole ordeal eventually overwhelmed them, and they parted, after exchanging details and the promise that, as soon as they found Sherlock, he'd be texted the details.

To say he was confused was an understatement. He knew hardly anything about the man he was supposed to help get over a drug addiction, and it frustrated him. How was he meant to help someone who didn't want help, mostly hated people and most certainly would hate him?

It was madness, but Greg's brutal honesty about the entire situation made his mind up for him.

That and the fact that the pay per week was enough to have made him choke on his drink.

Once he made it back home, he pulled out the little leaflets from the clinic that detailed some of the withdrawal symptoms and set to work on researching cocaine.

* * *

John was, by nature, an early riser. While he didn't despise his friends, which he knew had an inability to wake early, he certainly did laugh when they appeared late to class. Only one of his mates rose early in the morning, and that was still half an hour later than him.

That was why, when he woke up at 6am and turned on his side, before blearily checking his phone to see if he had any messages, he was intensely confused to see that there were five new text messages awaiting him.

Three from Greg, which John assumed meant that they had found Sherlock, and two from a private number.

He opened the earliest one with a sense of trepidation. _Sent at almost two-am...Christ,_ he noted with surprise.

 **(1:46am) (Gregory Lestrade) -** _Found_   _Sherlock. He's okay but seems  
sorta confused._  _Dunno why._

 **(2:01am)** _Back at his place now. I'll text you_   _the address for tomorrow._

 **(2:17am)** _221B Baker Street. The landlady is_   _really nice. I think you'll  
like her. Mycroft's here_  _taking care of things now. Guess I'm going._

 **(3:00am) (Private number) -** _Good morning,_   _doctor. I pray I haven't  
awoken you this fine_  _morning. However, as it is concerning Sherlock,_   _it  
is deemed rather relevant to you now._ _Later_   _today, once you have  
finished your set training,_  _a car will be sent to collect you and bring you  
here._  _From there, I will introduce you to my brother,_   _who will undoubtedly  
insult you. Try to not to take_  _it personally – it's his most used defence_    
 _mechanism. -MH_

 **(3:07am) (Private number) -** _Hello. Anthea_   _here._ _Your mobile texting  
plan has been increased_  _to cover the costs of Sherlock texting you._ _If you_    
 _do not wish for this to continue, then simply block_   _him from your contacts._

Sherlock texting him? As if on cue, his text alert went off.

 **(6:05am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _So you're my_   _new handler. -SH_

For some strange reason, John found himself almost grinning. From what he knew, Sherlock was well educated, which was more than likely to show through his texting; terrible at exerting proper social decorum; and a smart arse to boot. The prospects weren't promising, but, hopefully, if they could get to know each other a little over the phone before actually meeting, then it would be easier.

 **(6:06am) (John Watson) -** _Should I bring a collar_   _and leash?_

 **(6:06am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _I am perfectly_   _capable of keeping_ _myself  
under control in a social_  _setting. -SH_

He groaned. Fairly impervious to jokes then. Maybe add an emoticon to the end next time? At least he texted quickly.

**(6:08am) (John Watson) -** _We'll see._

**(6:09am)** _Why do you sign everything as_ _"-SH"?_   _I do have your caller ID._

 **(6:10am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _If I'm ever in a_   _dire situation, or my_ _phone  
is being used by_  _another, then_ _the "-SH" is generally skipped (due_   _to_ _the  
severity of the situation or because_ _whoever_   _has the phone is too much of_  
 _an idiot to realise that_   _utilising the English_ _language effectively and adding_    
 _my "signature" to the end may rather successfully_   _impersonate_ _me)._

 _In its own way, it happens to be a sign that_   _something is wrong. -SH_

John stared at the last text for a few moments, rereading it and trying to figure out how the hell to respond to that. It was logical, but why on earth did he feel the need to even have a plan like that?

**(6:10am) (John Watson) -** _That's concerning._

**(6:10am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _You're neither_   _my handler nor my_ _mother. I  
suggest you stop_  _making_ _it seem like you are. -SH_

 **(6:11am) (John Watson) -** _You're just going to_   _be a bunch of happiness and  
sunshine aren't you?_

 **(6:11am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _No, I'm going to_   _be a withdrawing cocaine  
addict who intensely_  _dislikes you. Your sarcasm is rather unwelcome_    
 _here. -SH_

He stared at the phone in dismay. God, this really was going to be difficult.

 **(6:12am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Did I wake you_   _up? -SH_

**(6:13am) (John Watson) -** _I was already awake._

**(6:13am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Shame, I'll text_   _earlier next time. -SH_

 **(6:14am) (John Watson) -** _I will legit buy a collar_   _and leash before  
meeting you, if I have to._

**(6:15am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _I'll growl. -SH_

John read the message twice, before deciding that the answer was meant to be humorous, and he actually laughed.

 **(6:16am) (John Watson) -** _Imagine explaining to_   _your bro why I've got  
animal supplies and you're_  _growling._

 **(6:16am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Experiment, of_   _course. -SH_

 **(6:17am) (John Watson) -** _Sounds like I've_   _stumbled on a really bad  
kinky porno._

 **(6:17am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _I'm under the_   _impression that this is_ _a  
bad time to mention that_  _I own a riding crop. -SH_

Mildly concerning.

 **(6:18am) (John Watson) -** _I dunno how to_   _respond to that._

**(6:18am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Growl. -SH_

John paused a moment, before laughing again. Definitely not the type of conversation most people would be okay with but certainly something he could take. At least there'd be a few days of no withdrawal symptoms, where they could hopefully share a few moments of laughter.

_Mental note: Sherlock has a socially awkward/morbid sense of humour. Likely to disappear with withdrawal. Lovely._

**(6:20am) (John Watson) -** _I'll keep that in mind._

_If I don't respond to your texts just_ _keep going._   _I'm getting ready now,_  
 _but I'll answer them_   _all at one point._

**(6:20am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Dull. -SH_

His stomach grumbled, as he stared at the last text.

 **(6:20am) (John Watson) -** _Well then keep_   _yourself amused by_ _being  
arrogant. It seems to_  _suite you._

 **(6:21am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _My entire_   _outlook on life is arrogant._  
 _Best get used to it. -SH_

He gave the last text a quick look, before setting his phone back onto the bedside table and coaxing himself out of the warmth of his bed, with the promise of toast and tea.

His phone gave eight beeps, while he was making toast, and another two more, while he buttered it and spread the jam.

**(6:22am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Bored. -SH_

_As a doctor, I expect you to take note that_   _boredom will likely kill me  
one day. -SH_

 _Your lack of response certifies that you've_   _left your mobile. -SH_

 **(6:23am)** _The flat's empty. I'm fairly sure_   _they're searching all my  
possessions to see if I_  _have any other illicit substances hidden_  
away. -SH

_I was hoping I could introduce you to Cranium. -SH_

_Ignore the unimaginative name. I was nine, when_   _he was given to me,  
and the name seemed a pure_  _stroke of genius at the time.-SH_

**(6:24am)** _Would that be too morbid for you? -SH_

_The skull, not the name. If you find the name_   _morbid, then I have no  
hope for our continued_  _association (or your future in medicine) and_    
 _suggest we severe_ _contact now.-SH_

 **(6:25am)** _I will choose the skull over you if it_   _comes to that. -SH_

 _Even if you do have a full working skeleton_   _contained within your  
body. -SH_

 **(6:26am) (John Watson) -** _If it comes down_   _to me and the skull, I'll  
have to kill myself and_  _donate the skeleton to win?_

 **(6:26am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Oh good._   _Morbidity certainly doesn't  
scare you away. -SH_

He bit into his toast.

 **(6:28am) (John Watson) -** _My uni course_   _details the entire human  
body and its various inner_  _workings. A skull is actually a welcome  
touch of_  _realism to my studies. Though I am a little concerned_   _as to_  
how you have a skull.

_Also how do I turn my phone on silent?_

**(6:29am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _What? -SH_

Didn't he know how to do that?

 **(6:30am) (John Watson) -** _Y'know, so that it_   _doesn't make any sound  
when I'm in class._

 **(6:30am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _You have a_   _moderate texting speed which  
implies familiarity_  _with the action, however, you don't know how to_    
 _change the settings? -SH_

 **(6:31am) (John Watson) -** _All my friends know_   _to not text me in class.  
You're bored, and I want to_  _read your texts, so I need to know how to set  
it to_  _silent._

 **(6:31am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Fiddle with the_   _options – you seem  
intelligent, you'll find it. -SH_

 _Seeing that you're asking to silence your phone_   _already, I'm assuming  
our mutual communication is_  _reading an end. -SH_

**(6:32am)** _Hm. -SH_

**(6:48am) (John Watson) -** _I did say I was getting_   _ready._

 **(6:49am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _And currently I_   _am your incredibly_ _bored  
patient who is locked inside_  _his own flat. I really do think that_ _you should  
amuse_  _me, rather than_ _follow a curriculum set by professors_   _who assume  
themselves smarter than_ _the general_   _populous. -SH_

**(6:50am) (John Watson) -** _But you went to uni._

**(6:50am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Yes. I also quit_   _because they were_ _all  
morons. Have you figured out_  _how to silence your mobile yet? -SH_

 **(6:51am) (John Watson) -** _Yeah. I really do have_   _to go now._ _Any last  
minute requests before I_ _face the_   _world and my education?_

 **(6:51am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _Demand that Mycroft_   _gives back my  
possessions. If not for my sake, then_ _for_   _yours. -SH_

 **(6:52am) (John Watson) -** _Will do. Gtg now. I'll uh_   _see you at_ _your  
flat later I guess._

When Sherlock didn't respond within the minute, he tucked his phone into his pocket, shouldered his bag, gave the room a quick once over, and then finally set of for the little cafe where he'd meet Mike.


	3. Chapter 2 - Assumptions and Deductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long it took me to update. My laziness knows no bounds.

When John finally finished class, the first thing he did was check his phone. The fact that he only had three texts awaiting him was inconsistent. Sherlock had seemed to be quite an avid texter and bored to the point of no return. He'd mentally prepared himself to have to scroll through at _least_ over 50 texts, many of which would likely proclaim life as being tedious and not worth Sherlock's time.

Of course, three texts were not 50. Just when he thought he had this miniscule part of Sherlock Holmes figured out, the man blew away his assumptions, as easily as a butterfly in a gust of wind.

**(10:22am) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _I've dismantled_   _the toaster. -SH_

**(10:41am)** _Also, out of sheer spite and hilarity,_   _I've conducted an  
experiment on burning said_  _toaster. -SH_

**(1:48pm)** _Mrs Hudson decided to pay me a social_   _visit. Inform  
Mycroft that he will be paying the_  _damages in my stead. -SH_

John let out a horrified chuckle; this was absolutely barking mad. Who took apart toasters as a way to relieve boredom, and no doubt piss off siblings? Apparently Sherlock did. The same man who he'd signed up to check up on every day, for at least a couple of months, and provide medical advice for in the future. Why had he even deemed breaking the toaster as the most suitable form of entertainment? And, not only that, why did he then set _fire_ to it? Surely he had books or something.

He jumped when Mycroft Holmes seemed to materialise in front of him, without so much as a brief hello.

"Christ!" John breathed, and shot a small, apologetic smile at Mycroft.

The smile was ignored. "How is communication between you and my brother going?"

He glanced down at his phone with a tense look. "To be honest, I have no idea. He seems…" he tried to find a word that didn't express his distaste at the texts he'd just read, "amiable enough."

Mycroft gave him a condescending smile. "Amiable, really? I haven't heard someone describe my brother as amiable, for quite some time. Your discomfort with the situation isn't easily hidden from me. Both my brother and I are incredibly proficient with reading people – try and move past your need to adhere to social mores that dictate false niceties, and tell me truthfully what you think."

John stood still, completely shocked. Mycroft's eyes raked over him, and not in an appreciative or seductive manner, but rather like he was being deconstructed: different pieces of information being taken and compartmentalised to form a dossier on one 'Future Dr John Hamish Watson'. Those eyes finally rested on his face, and a look of pleasant calm washed over Mycroft, as though the creepy scenario, just a second ago, had been a figment of John's overly active imagination.

"Right then," John said, with a slight hitch in his voice. "He dislikes me, has a fairly macabre sense of humour, wants his stuff back, and broke the toaster. That about sums up our _communication_." He couldn't help but make the last word sound sour.

Mycroft nodded his acquiescence, before abruptly turning away, with the same flair and drama as yesterday, and leading them to the black car he'd seen only briefly before.

The car trip was spent in complete, though amused in the elder Holmes' case, silence.

* * *

John couldn't help but feel Mycroft's stare, as they exited the car. He saw the flicker of a curtain above them, and he somehow thought of Sherlock dashing away like a blushing maiden. The thought was ridiculous enough for him to smile briefly.

Mycroft followed him out of the car and handed him a set of keys. "Needless to say Sherlock won't always feel obliged to let you in," was the explanation.

Baker Street seemed like a quiet sort of area. True, there was traffic and the endless mulling of people coming to and fro, but there didn't seem to be anyone yelling like madmen – or women – and no cars bolting down the road with huge sounds booming from their exhausts. The atmosphere outside was calm; John just wasn't sure what to expect of inside 221B.

Mycroft stepped forward, as John observed his surroundings, and tapped on the door, with the handle of his umbrella, thrice.

A moment later, the door shot open, and a motherly sort of woman bustled into view.

"Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor Watson." He said flatly. "Doctor Watson, Mrs Hudson."

They greeted each other with warm smiles, and she hastily let them in.

"He's been up there all day; Lord knows what the boy's been doing! I checked up on him, and there was the toaster all in pieces – put into little piles with notes about the metal." She gave a little indignant huff and waved for them to go upstairs. Mycroft stayed back, for a moment, to inquire about something – most likely the damages – but John took the open doorway as a sign to go straight on in.

Just in case, he knocked on the doorframe.

A split second later, Sherlock burst into view, all brutal energy and efficient grace. He was still dressed in pyjamas and a dressing gown, however, that didn't detract from the all-consuming atmosphere that Sherlock was surrounded with. He was half a head taller, and, if it weren't for the fact that he'd been told of the five year difference between them, he'd say Sherlock was only eighteen, if not a lanky teenager who had already gone through all their growth spurts.

"May I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked immediately, his voice surprisingly deep.

He gaped. Not even a simple hello then? "Can't you just use the landline?"

Sherlock's brows furrowed, and he took a step closer, entering John's personal space without a single sign of discomfort.

"I prefer to text."

John edged away and stuck his hand quickly into his pocket, pulling out his mobile and quickly passing it over to his new 'patient'.

Sherlock spun the phone in his hand twice, quickly observing both its faces and sides, before turning it on and tapping away quickly, much quicker than John had ever done, and handing back the phone with, what John didn't really believe to be, a sincere thank you.

His observations were cut off as Sherlock spun on his heel and flung himself mindlessly onto the sofa, before settling into a perfect stillness, only cut by him steepling his fingers beneath his chin and wiggling them for a moment.

A quiet tone sounded from behind him, followed by the footsteps of what sounded like Mycroft. He turned with a strange expression, only to see the man staring down at his phone with muted disdain.

"Really, Sherlock?" He said, and swept past John, only to pause at Sherlock's frozen frame.

The tension was palpable.

"I'd hoped to avoid any sort of communication between us in spoken form, but even that seems to be out of your grasp. You're welcome to leave at any time; the door is, after all, just within your reach."

Mycroft sighed, "Such a child."

"And yet you're leaving me alone with an older man who has bisexual tendencies." Sherlock hissed bitterly. "Condoning paedophilia now, Mycroft?"

"Implying you are below the legal age, which just so happens to be false."

"I was six years ago, and, correct me if I'm wrong, but you did just call me a child."

"Hey!" John demanded, and they both looked at him with blank expressions. "I'm right here."

Sherlock sat up as quickly as he sat down, fixing him with a dark glare, while schooling his face to one of over enthusiasm. "Really?" He asked in a voice too high to not be sarcasm. "I hadn't noticed your presence! Brilliant." His gaze worked its way up to Mycroft. "You've secured me an idiot. Congratulations."

Just like a child, Sherlock bounded off the sofa, aimed one last menacing look at Mycroft, and then stormed off, leaving the two of them watching the back of his dressing gown with anger.

"Let me guess," John began. "He gets better? He doesn't like strangers?"

"I've been told you enjoy a challenge."

He scoffed. "There just so happens to be a difference between 'challenge' and 'colossal prick'."

Mycroft ignored him and instead presented him with a neatly £100 folded note. "A bonus," he whispered, and walked out the door, shutting it with a little click that seemed to have a rather difficult air of finality about it. He shifted from foot to foot, trying to decide what to do with himself.

On one hand, Sherlock already seemed like a right bastard and probably didn't deserve any of his time. On the other hand, he'd just been paid enough to pay part of his bills next week, and it'd just be rude to not at least attempt this.

He slipped his shoulder bag off and onto the sofa, before following the route Sherlock had taken, which led directly to the kitchen.

The kitchen seemed to mean experimental area, because the remains of the toaster were laid out in neat, precise piles. Next to each pile, there was a little note saying how much each pile had spent in direct contact with the flame. There was a thirty-second pile, one-minute pile, two-minute pile, and finally a five-minute pile. The bulkier pieces were off to the side, and every little plastic ornament that had once adorned the toaster had seemingly been melted into one distorted pile of utter uselessness.

He allowed his eyes to pass over the beaker of questionable fluids, which looked suspiciously reminiscent of the liquids they used to preserve flesh in the morgue, and focused on trying to get past the clutter on the floor. There were books and random sheets of paper stacked in organised chaos against the edges. He looked back to the sitting room and frowned at the sight of an empty bookshelf.

_No real organisational skills then, either._

To his surprise, the door to Sherlock's room was wide open, the edge of a bed just in view. He cautiously stepped into the threshold, to see Sherlock lying on the bed with a look of pure distaste aimed in his direction.

"By paying you extra upfront, Mycroft was ensuring that your inner morality would come into play, and you'd stay out of respect. It's almost a nice form of bribery, if you look at it in the right way."

He frowned, and Sherlock sent him an unsettling grin.

"Oh, don't worry, he plays everyone like that; few people realise it's even occurred, until someone with higher intelligence points it out."

"And you consider yourself to be of 'higher intelligence'?"

The grin turned feral, and Sherlock angled his head towards him. "Graduation soon then, doctor? You'll finally have the time to seek proper employment, to pay back your debts to your brother. It's a shame he'll spend it all on drinking. You're trying so hard to maintain proper contact, however, it's almost like a barrier between the two of you. Not to mention the recent divorce – now that's just terribly inconvenient."

He'd felt Mycroft deconstructing him, whereas Sherlock had simply taken the facts, laid them out bare on the table, and then arrogantly quirked an elegant brow at him.

"How did you know all that?"

"I didn't." Sherlock said cryptically, before closing his eyes and replicating the position he'd taken on the sofa, mere minutes before. "As you're now considered my doctor, I should warn you of the symptoms I'm likely to go through. Personally, my physical symptoms are limited to mild tremors and headaches. As with all cocaine users, emotional withdrawal symptoms are nearly all present: anxiety, restlessness, irritability, insomnia, as well as tiredness. Poor concentration, depression, and social isolation are to be expected, also."

"Jesus," he breathed, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Sherlock's eyes snapped back open to regard him curiously, before slipping half shut, subtly observing him. "Well… I've definitely seen irritability –" Sherlock scoffed, "and social isolation."

"Why do you assume this is social isolation?"

He looked around the room quickly. "There aren't any get-well cards and nobody wishing you a speedy recovery."

Sherlock's eyes followed the same path his had chosen, lingering on the bedside, just like John's had. His mouth quirked downwards briefly, before his eyes rested neutrally in front of him again. "Logical assumption."

"But?" John prompted.

Yet again, Sherlock's eyes flicked over to him so quickly, that it was almost scary.

"But that would imply there is someone to send said well wishes."

The silence was thick – thicker than the blanket covering Sherlock's bed. John's mouth opened and shut pointlessly, as he tried to collect his thoughts and steer them away from the dangerously uneasy conversation they'd just had. He stared at his shoes fruitlessly and wriggled his toes. It didn't help that Sherlock hadn't even moved, since the last word fell from his lips.

He went from looking at his feet to Sherlock's own bare ones. They were pale, with not even a hint of a tan line where his pyjamas had ridden up slightly to reveal his calf muscle. Maybe Sherlock simply deigned to constantly wear long trousers? He certainly didn't seem like the type to take picturesque holidays at idyllic, sunlit attractions. As rare as proper, full-blown sunlight was in their dreary climate, even he had a line from where his socks had stopped the sun, although that could be blamed on Rugby, which he used to play regularly.

Sherlock's voice broke through his thoughts rather easily.

"You asked how I knew about you."

Definitely a better topic than social isolation and the thought of feet.

"Yes, how did you know?"

Was it really so obvious? Was it written all over his face and the way he acted?

"I didn't know; I observed." Sherlock began, and John was sure that Sherlock was miffed that he had accused him of 'knowing'.

Sherlock stretched out his hand and quirked his fingers expectantly. "Phone," he demanded, and John fished it out for him again, gently placing it on his upturned palm.

Sherlock gave it a long look, before taking a breath and launching into his explanation. "Your phone: it's expensive, email-enabled, and with an MP3 player. You're a training medical student who doesn't have enough time to incorporate a proper job into his study time; you wouldn't waste money on something like this. It's a gift then.

"Scratches: not one – many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. Someone like you wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this. So, it's had a previous owner." He flipped the phone onto its front, so that the back is clearly displayed. "The next bit's easy; you know it already." He looked at John expectantly, and he had to force himself to respond.

"The engraving."

Hints of a smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. "Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father – this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but then again you're a medical student who wouldn't have enough time for extended family – unlikely they'd feel obliged to help you.

"Now Clara," his voice turned decadent. "Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment – an expensive phone suggests wife, not girlfriend. She must've given it to him recently; this model's only…" He appraised the phone carefully, "six months old. Marriage in trouble, then. Only six months old, and he's given it away? But if she left him, he would've kept it; people do – _sentiment_. No, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you. That says he wants to keep in touch. You're obviously not living the richest lifestyle, as a medical student, and yet you won't go to your brother? That says you have problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, or maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you _possibly_ know about the drinking?" He staggered his words, trying to wrap his head around what was being spouted at him. People aren't meant to be whirlwinds of knowledge like this. It's foreign and alien to see someone straying so far from normal. As strange as Sherlock's angular face, cat-like eyes and short, black curls.

"Shot in the dark," Sherlock said, with another barely there, proud smile, "good one, though." He paused for another short breath, before continuing his deductive monologue. "Power connection, with tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night, he goes to plug it in to charge, but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone – never see a drunk's without them."

"You said I was bisexual." _We've known each other for less than a day and you found that out before my own lesbian sister did!_

"In the window, I was watching. When you left the car, you quickly checked out the entire street, including the people on it. Unconsciously, you did so for both genders of a suitable age bracket. Your interest in the passing people was subtle – a look and nothing else. You may think you hide it well, but it only takes someone to really look, to see." He flips the phone twice in his hand, quickly checking for anything he may have missed, before ceasing movement entirely and looking briefly John. "You were right."

" _I_ was right? Right about what?"

"I do consider myself to be highly intelligent."

Sherlock was very pointedly avoiding meeting his eyes, instead casually twirling the phone and thumbing over the scratches with delicacy.

"That," he paused, and Sherlock looked innocently up to him, "was amazing."

And it was amazing. This was what Lestrade had meant, when he had said Sherlock was all too smart. He'd held back absolutely nothing from his observations. There was no bias in what he said, pure fact overriding Mycroft's 'social mores that dictate false niceties'. It hadn't been nice at all. Brutally efficient, straight to the point, and mostly correct. Was this what he saw when speaking to other people? Did certain parts of their person stand out immediately, so that he could form his own opinion of them, within seconds?

"You think so?" He stared at Sherlock and saw honest confusion written in his eyes.

_That would imply there is someone to send said well wishes._ Lestrade had also said Sherlock didn't associate with people much. If this was the sort of behaviour Sherlock displayed to everyone, then of course barely anyone would speak to him. That would also mean that no one legitimately stopped to appreciate his intellect, and that he'd be cast out of most social circles.

"It was extraordinary – quite extraordinary."

Sherlock's thumb stopped running over the marks completely, so instead, all his attention focused on John. "That's not what people normally say."

"And what do people normally say?"

He was sent a brief, awkward smile – the same you see on someone's face, when they're telling you something bad. That sort of tight-lipped smile that meant 'I'm okay with this, don't worry.' "Piss off."

John laughed because, in some ways, it was genuinely humorous. He could tell that that was the toned down version of what was usually said but didn't call him out on it; conversation had been much too taut and awkward before.

"So, hungry?" He asked. Food was generally a simple affair that didn't spark any amazingly uncomfortable situations.

Sherlock handed him his phone, before waving his hand in a non-committal manner. "Eating slows down my thinking process."

He opened his phone and casually went through the different options. "I'm fairly sure you told me that boredom was likely to kill you one day. If we slow your thought process down, then boredom will take longer."

"Surprising logic there."

He opened up the recently sent messages and gave Sherlock an exasperated look.

**_Messages Sent_ ** **(3:41pm) (John Watson) -** _Sod off. -SH_

"You sent your brother a text telling him to sod off? He was in hearing distance!"

Sherlock sniffed imperiously, and he sighed.

"Right. I'm off to get takeaway. Don't do another toaster fiasco."

"That would both imply I own another toaster, and that the original experiment was, indeed, a fiasco, both assumptions being incredibly false."

John sighed. "Well, you did break the toaster."

Sherlock gave him a cold look. "Considering my current predicament, I'm sure we can make an exception. It was either the toaster or the kettle. The kettle, being key in making both tea and coffee, was discarded from experimental purposes. I suggest you leave for that takeaway now, before conversation strays to something superfluously unwanted again."

He left without a goodbye, but, just as he left the front door, he got a new text.

**(4:12pm) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _There's a nice_   _Chinese with interesting  
fortune cookies. I highly_  _recommend it and will text you the address, in  
a_  _moment. -SH_

**(4:13pm)** _If that's acceptable, of course. -SH_

He smiled.

**(4:14pm) (John Watson) -** _If it's expensive_   _then I'm charging everything  
to your brother._

**(4:14pm) (Sherlock Holmes) -** _By all means,_   _buy out the entire restaurant.  
-SH_

He smiled even harder, when the address was sent through, calling a cab and getting in with glee.

_Could be much, much worse_ , he thought, still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, constructive criticism is welcome. I do mention that Sherlock has short hair, so I mean his hairstyle from the Pilot episode. It's absolutely precious :')


End file.
